


Andantino, a piacere

by 17StreetsAhead



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Music, Piano fluff, abed is pretty, is now a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:15:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26048635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17StreetsAhead/pseuds/17StreetsAhead
Summary: It wasn’t a secret, exactly, that Abed was sitting on a small mountain of music credits by their third year at Greendale. But it wasn’t something he thought would be put on display, either.
Relationships: Troy Barnes/Abed Nadir
Comments: 6
Kudos: 155





	Andantino, a piacere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [biggod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggod/gifts).



It wasn’t a secret, exactly, that Abed was sitting on a small mountain of music credits by their third year at Greendale. Troy vaguely remembered a dumber, year-one week-two version of himself only halfway listening to the weird spindly guy talk about a film score class he couldn’t get into without a prerequisite. In Troy’s defense it was less of a conversation than a monologue that began about Musicology 101 but somehow culminated in a shot-by-shot breakdown of a man being bludgeoned to death with a bowling pin in a scoreless scene from a movie Troy would probably never watch. In Troy’s further defense, he learned to listen and grew out of that version of himself quickly. By freshman spring registration he was helping Abed con sophomores out of the film music class to make space for him.

They were sharing an apartment when Troy noticed the spine of another music theory book stacked under several other texts on Abed’s desk, and Abed casually revealed he’d taken a music class almost every semester since.

So maybe it wasn’t a secret, but it was quiet.

By the time the study group convened to detox after midterms the following semester, Troy and Abed were together. Again – not a secret, exactly, but quiet outside the study group. For now.

The group sat around the table after a day of testing, Britta regurgitating what sounded to Troy like a questionable interpretation of something she may or may not have read in the psychology book, and Annie humble-bragging about her award winning chemistry set or whatever. That was how the dean found them upon his grand entrance of the day, pausing to greet Jeff specifically before planting himself at the table’s corner and launching into a congratulatory spiel on the value of a semester half-completed; “of course I would have loved to have paid my respects in proper Kate _Middle_ ton regalia, but I’m headed over to City College and you know they can be – ”

“What does City College want?” Annie asked, arms crossed.

“Oh, we’re broke and need their money. The point is they take a dim view of whimsical administrative attire, which goes to show you – I’m sorry, what is that?” he cut off suddenly, pointing.

There was a beat while most of the table, Jeff and his phone excluded, glanced up from their own distractions. Troy followed the dean’s line of sight and accusatory finger hovering over Britta’s head. Abed blinked in mild concern, then reached forward to the table where his notebook lay, attempting in a hurry to stuff some stray papers inside, too late. Annie craned her neck to see as the dean positioned himself next to Abed with his hands on his hips, waiting.

Abed sighed and opened his notebook back up. Inside was a thin, messy pile of sheet music with two staves. “It’s for my music performance exam.”

“He plays the piano,” Troy said smiling, then put a hand on the table between him and Abed. “How’d the exam g-”

_“Music performance?”_ The dean placed a hand on his chest, scandalized with the whole room. “We are at risk every second of our _lives_ of being sued by Bruce Hornsby’s estate because of your little gang, and all along this one could play actual music?”

The cacophony of dissent started in Troy’s corner. “Uh, mister, _that one_ has a name – ”

“And Bruce Hornsby’s music _is_ actual music, who do you think you are?” Britta demanded. “His estate should – wait a minute, is Bruce Hornsby dead?”

“More importantly,” Jeff intervened, “Greendale commissioned that dumb rip off, not us; the only one here who can be sued for it is you, Dean.”

“None of this diminishes my indignation!” the dean said, spreading his arms wide as if that settled the matter. “Abed, Greendale has partnered with City College to host a twelve-hour telethon Thursday to raise money for both campuses and _we_ are looking for entertainment. Now can I put you down for the afternoon, say two o’clock?”

Abed shoved his notebook into his messenger bag on the floor next to him. “Hm, pass. The class is over.”

“You can put it toward a credit! You can put it toward your film major,” the dean added in what he clearly thought was a persuasive lilt.

“I was going to use those credits to learn about film.”

“Imagine that,” Jeff said, crushing candy on his phone. “Dean, lay off. He said no.”

Troy opened his mouth to agree, but closed it. The last thing he wanted was for Abed to feel pressured, but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t curious. They’d been friends for _how long_ now and even dating, and Troy had never heard Abed play. That incidental music minor was being earned one solitary rehearsal room hour at a time.

“Well I would think you would all be a little more invested in our fundraising,” the dean was saying, “since your group spends more time on this campus than anyone. We’re obligated to use the first ten thousand dollars raised for curriculum but if we top that we can build a discretionary pool and I thought _you_ all might enjoy an espresso machine.”

This revelation received silent mixed reviews around the table, and Jeff’s eyes cut up from his phone. “You’re seriously going to bribe us with coffee?” Then, after a moment: “home model or commercial?”

“Well I suppose that depends on how much we raise, doesn’t it?”

Abed’s eyes shifted between them as they spoke, wary of the direction this was taking. He raised a finger to interject, and then –

“Location?” Jeff asked, putting his phone down.

“The cafeteria, of course.”

“Library.”

“Fine. Anything else?”

“Wait a minute, guys – ”

“Yeah,” Jeff said. “We all drink for free.” He didn’t wait for a response, but gestured casually with both hands as though though congratulating the group for witnessing him in action, and then sat back, propping an ankle up on the tabletop.

“Alright, but that’s it,” the dean insisted. “Abed, I’ll see you in City College’s recital hall on Thursday at 2pm and try to wear something without Optimus Prime emblazoned on the front. Too-da-loo!”

* * *

Abed was willing to compromise by wearing a short-sleeved plaid _over_ the Transformers. Maybe together he and Annie would even iron it. Not that it mattered, he thought – there was no way they were raising over ten thousand dollars, and no way that him awkwardly plinking away at one of the community college uprights on campus television was going to make a difference.

On Wednesday he and Troy launched an exploratory mission to the City College recital hall, infiltrating their way up the broad, shallows steps in the spring sun to the front door and into the lobby. From behind Troy, Abed reached around to push the house door open, and held it in place with his palm flat on the wood. Troy entered first, the warmth of his sweater sleeve grazing the back of Abed’s hand on the door, and cursed mildly.

“What is it?” Abed said behind him, and then they both stopped at the top of the aisle where they stood.

The audience rows, empty and dimly illuminated by floor lights, led far down to the stage at the opposite end, where a black baby grand piano stood just off-center of the stage, its lid down. Large velvet curtains were tied back on either side, and more behind those, all the way upstage.

Troy whistled. “I can’t believe they film their campus TV here,” he said. “Are we sure this telethon isn’t a prank? They’re loaded; what do they even need to fundraise for?”

Abed shrugged, starting to feel uneasy. Greendale filmed at a fold-up table they had to set up on the cafeteria wall with the least crummy lighting.

“We better not stay too long. I feel poor,” Troy said, starting down the aisle.

Abed didn’t follow, but turned in a circle to look at the house seats. “I don’t know if I can play here,” he said, rooted in place. He was dimly aware of his own hands flexing and unflexing.

Troy turned to him from ten yards away. “Sure you can.” Abed waited in the spot, assessing, and just like that, Troy was back by his side. “It’s just campus television. There won’t even be people in the seats. Just you and some City College weirdos and some cameras.”

“That sounds worse.”

“And me.”

Abed raised his eyebrows with a shallow tilt of his head, conceding the point. It was an indisputable fact that Troy was better than no Troy. He forced his hands still to Troy’s evident satisfaction.

Then Troy cut his eyes upward, past Abed’s shoulder toward the doors they’d just entered. They’d only been together a couple months but Abed recognized that look, that scan of the surroundings. He dipped his head slightly to give Troy easier access so he only had to lean in to give Abed a brief kiss beneath the ear, at the top of his jawline. It helped things. Abed smiled, a bit, and looked back up toward the stage. “I guess you’re right.” He’d never played on anything as nice as the instrument waiting there, wasn’t really good enough to justify it, but so what? All the more reason to maximize the experience while he had the chance. Anyway it’s what his friends wanted.

He could feel Troy beaming openly at him for whatever reason – he rarely fully understood why. Sometimes he puzzled through it, had Troy explain himself, got embarrassed by the response and had to work react accurately. This time, though, he had the presence of mind not to require of Troy an account of every handsome expression that passed his face. This time Abed had the good sense to turn to Troy directly, there in the dark aisle of an empty auditorium at a school that wasn’t theirs… and make eye contact.

Troy’s smile changed fast; Abed knew he shouldn’t think this way but it was almost _too_ easy. Troy was in his space in a moment, trusting Abed, who tilted his head again, this time to put his mouth on Troy’s. He set his hands lightly on Troy’s sides. Troy’s movements were less practiced and more insistent. He was warm, eager, historically quick to dishevel. _Four seconds,_ Abed guessed to himself, then counted the moments until Troy’s hands found their way to Abed’s hair, and Abed grinned into the kiss at his own accuracy.

What he didn’t predict was Troy’s fingers grasping more firmly in the next moment, a gentle tug having a not-so-gentle effect on Abed. He broke the kiss with a surprised – “oh” – and Troy took the opportunity to move to his throat, kissing first and then sucking and okay, that next sound Abed had _definitely_ not expected out of himself. “What, here?” he managed, barely moving back far enough to think clearly. Absol _utely_ here, his brain supplied.

But Troy was loosening his hold, surveying the results, giving him a smug smile and pulling back. “Nah, I guess not,” he said. “That’ll just be your thanks for representing Greendale.”

“Oh.” Abed had a slight sensation of whiplash but wasn’t prepared to show it. He recovered and cleared his throat. “I... I guess it doesn’t say much for us that the dean couldn’t get an actual music major to do it instead.”

“It’ll be over before you know it. Still going with the Optimus Prime shirt?”

“Maybe not,” Abed said, glancing up at the gleaming instrument on stage, the upholstery flanking the space on all sides. There was money in this campus. “We might be closer to Jeff’s espresso machine than I thought.”

* * *

On Thursday Troy arrived five minutes before Abed’s time slot, and checked his messages from his seat in an otherwise empty front row. On stage City College’s star debater was wearing a vest and giving an outright recitation to wrap up the 1:30pm slot, staring straight into an expensive camera with an intensity that made Troy shudder and look back down to his phone, around at the empty seats, to the wired equipment and the several campus television students manning it.

“Well isn’t this just so exciting,” came a loud whisper to his left, making him jump.

Dean Pelton had materialized in the seat directly next to him. Troy squeezed as far over in his seat as he could. “Hey, tell the truth. Are there any Greendale students part of this other than Abed?”

“Busted!” the dean answered, to the shushes of various City College techies and journalist types. “In my defense they didn’t want more of us than necessary, and we get half the proceeds as long as we participate in some capacity. On account of it was my idea.”

Troy shook his head as the speech on stage ended. In other words Greendale had conned its way into 50% of the profits of a program almost entirely bankrolled and executed by City College, just by putting up one film major who, regardless of how skilled Troy knew those long fingers could be, was shanghaied into the gig and whose greatest known musical contribution to date was watching _Amadeus_.

“Nadir?” a teacher with a clipboard was saying, checking her watch. And then, unenthused: “oh, that must be the student from Greendale.”

At the back of the house, the doors clanged open by Abed in a t-shirt, struggling, both to don a second layer and to remove his own messenger back from his shoulder at the same time. “Sorry I’m late. Hey Troy.”

The dean looked regretful. “Not very professional,” he mourned quietly.

Troy cut him a look. “Professionals get paid money. This is what you get for dragging Abed into a program two days after daylight savings.” He rose and met Abed in the aisle. “Hey guy, let me get that for you.”

Abed paused and stood a moment, content amidst the frowns of City College, letting Troy extract the bag from his person. “Thanks.” He was free then to pull one arm through a white long-sleeve button down, and then the other as he took two stairs at a time up to City College’s stage where the piano, two cameras, and a small campus television crew stood unimpressed and waiting. Troy sat back down, giving himself a buffer seat between him and the dean, holding Abed’s bag in his lap for safe keeping.

“Should we introduce him on the air?” someone asked.

“It’s fine, the donation hotline will be on the screen,” said the keeper of the clipboard. “Let’s just get started.”

“Cool,” Abed said, buttoning his top until the t-shirt was hidden and toeing the piano bench out further from below the keyboard. “Cool, cool, cool.”

It bothered Troy, all these unfriendly eyes on his boyfriend, and he made a conscious effort not to strum his fingers while Abed situated himself at the instrument, not to forget that Abed was an athlete and performer, one of the smartest students in the study group, had commanded swaths of the student body at a time. He could take care of himself, and did.

The auditorium quieted right before someone on the telethon crew gave a signal, and then two red lights turned on. They were live. But the Abed now seated at the piano, taking a focused breath and hovering his fingers over the keys, was not the Abed who faltered his way into the auditorium moments ago.

Abed’s silhouetted posture was deliberate, his expression now laser-focused. The lightly wrinkled button-up was a stark white against his skin and the dark of the velvet curtains behind him. Its cuffs fell just past his wrists, making his arms look even longer than usual, and its collar fell into a ‘V’ where his top button was left open. The back hem almost skimmed the bench he sat on, over his trademark fitted jeans.

“Oh, hm,” observed the dean.

Troy leaned an elbow on his arm rest, one hand under his chin, intent.

The opening notes were low and quiet.

It was a moderate Latin bassline, that repeated once and evolved almost imperceptibly until on the fourth play was fleshed into full, wide chords comprising the same rhythm in both hands. When a high melody emerged at last in an upper octave, Abed shifted his weight forward, hovering the toe of one of his grey Converses over the far right pedal, the other leg at rest, bent slightly under the bench. Troy had never heard the song in his life, and Abed had been in music classes for three semesters. Dueling swells of pride and regret began to pool in Troy’s stomach, not for the first time: he could add this to the growing list of personal, serious things he and Abed could have shared months ago if they’d gotten their act together sooner. But they were both here now.

The program staff seemed to recognize an unexpected opportunity when they saw it, and there was a bit of movement at the tech board, some muttering into the producer’s headset mic. The lights stayed up but shifted, focusing stage left and away from the two rolling cameras – one in the audience aisle at a right angle from Abed and the piano, and one on stage, at an angle clearly intended to artistically encompass both the performer and the instrument. Abed shook his head once and blinked, sensitive to the shifting brightness, but recovered even as the lights phased up and flashed across the polished wood of the piano’s casing, a streak of white through the obsidian.

The piano’s lid had been raised overnight and it reflected, barely perceptibly, the intricate movements of the instrument’s insides – first moderate, followable, and now speeding up as the piece intensified. The music was a hybrid, haunting and edgy, bluesy but deliberate. By the time Abed was playing the melody in full octave chords in one hand and a more complicated ostinato in the other, he was rising ever so slightly off the bench at the start of each phrase, then grounding directly and pedaling. His expression – focused, even-keeled – hardly changed.

The other feelings inside Troy were commonplace: pride in Abed, mild awe, and love plain and simple, although even he knew you don’t use that word two months into the relationship. And yes, maybe he was a bit smug. City College could suck it.

The piece finished more elaborately than it had started, to general hoopla in the tiny Greendale corner of the huge empty audience. Troy hollered once and only quieted when City College gave him withering looks and a diversity of gestures, and the faculty in charge waved Abed ahead. Sure, Troy thought, _now_ they were interested. Abed wiped his palms on his jeans and seemed to take a moment to think of what to play next – apparently he’d come prepared, but perhaps not Annie-Edison prepared. Then he slid the sleeve of one arm up a moment to check his digital watch, before starting another piece. As it began Troy felt a buzz in his pocket that he fumbled to silence. He’d bet ten to one that was Annie, watching from their apartment, or maybe with the group.

For the next twenty minutes Abed played, most likely whatever he’d been required to learn for exams over the semesters. By the time he got to a classical piece, faster and convoluted, a small sheen of sweat had appeared below his hairline, and his brow furrowed. His posture had reverted slightly to something more Abedian, unable to focus on his presentation and hit the notes of this final piece at the same time. The lines in each hand seemed inverted, now crossing, now – jeez, why had he gone to the trouble? The slot was almost over; Abed could have ramped his and Troy’s favorite filler music, moderate and cheery, for three minutes and saved himself some effort. Of course Troy knew the reason Abed was pushing himself. His friends had expressed a passing interest in free espresso, so if Abed had anything to say about it, free espresso was what they would get.

The song accelerated, Troy hoped intentionally, and far more than permitted for any pedal. Above the center of the keyboard the cursive name of the instrument maker was embossed in gold, reflecting a dynamic mirror of Abed’s hands. Then, after an audible intake of breath from Abed, a penultimate run bled into a pair of fast, replicated octaves in both hands, and on a fourth beat, clean and high and loud, the song finished.

The final notes echoed before disintegrating into the stunned silence. Abed’s head tilted almost imperceptibly as he listened, waiting for the reverberations bouncing off the walls and empty seating before lifting his long fingers gracefully away from the keys.

The small crew was willing to break protocol in order to offer up a round of applause, but Abed sought out Troy, turning in a small efficient movement to to gauge his reaction. Troy clapped and felt like his face might split open from smiling. Validated, Abed’s expression was smaller and restrained, but Troy knew it was enough.

Professor Clipboard made a throat-slitting gesture for quiet and shoved a City College student host in front of the cameras to talk about how far the viewer’s generous support will go to help gifted music majors like Abed struggling to make ends meet. Abed had taken a moment to lower the keyboard lid and unbutton his white long-sleeved layer; now he glanced up, perplexed by the backstory, before standing and making his way down the steps where Troy was holding his bag.

“Man, that was awesome.”

“Thanks. I can take that.” Abed reached for his bag, then blinked once when Troy held it away and defiantly slung it over his own shoulder.

“No, you’re the performer,” Troy said, starting for the exit. “You get people to carry stuff for you. Groupers.”

“Groupies.”

They had reached the lobby and stepped outside onto the City College campus when the dean caught up to them. “Thank you _so_ much Abed, and just to let you know, I forgive you for not volunteering to play a less litigious song than your friend a couple years ago.”

“Oh, I couldn’t have done it anyway. I was still in Musicology 101 then.”

The dean started once, then paused to process, before asking, “you mean, you didn’t play at all before you came to Greendale?”

“Nope.” Abed glanced across the quad that faced the rehearsal hall and started to lead Troy in the direction of the parking lot, before the dean put out a skinny arm across their paths, stopping them.

Dean Pelton snort-sobbed a moment, alarming them less than it might have in their freshman year, and said “you learned something so beautiful… at Greendale? At my school?” Without warning he opened his arms wide and entrapped Abed between them in what looked like a bony, tight hug on the sunny sidewalk. “I’m a good dean!”

Troy raised a tentative hand, unable to stop it. “Um.” Abed had stiffened and seemed to be performing cognitive exercises in his head, and exhaled loudly when the dean released him.

“And you’ll both be glad to know that with four hours to go we’ve hit our fundraising goal, so you can tell Jeffrey he can expect an espresso date with me in no time. We’ve even decided to re-run the telethon once it ends and push for donations another twelve hours. I think, and I mean this in a totally appropriate way, that between Abed’s Josh Groban vibe over here and City College’s red-headed Scarlett Johansson impressionist, this could be very popular with the late night television viewers in our campus and alumni communities.”

“Not cool, dude,” Troy muttered.

When the dean had gone they continued out of the campus, enjoying an anonymous walk toward their cars. Troy slid his hand into Abed’s and Abed glanced down, surprised, but Troy felt a slight squeeze of approval. “You’re really good,” Troy said.

“I’m not. You think that because you have no basis of comparison. And because you’re easily impressed by me.”

“Maybe you’re easily impressive.”

Abed frowned at that, and for a moment seemed ready to launch into a more aggressive discourse on the evidence against Troy’s stance. But then he looked at Troy; his expression softened and his retort dissipated. “…Okay.”

Troy smiled. He wondered if Annie would mind if they got a keyboard for the apartment. “Oh yeah,” he said, releasing Abed’s hand to dig for his phone. As he suspected, there was a string of texts in a group chat that started with a complimentary and surprisingly jealousy-free ramble about personal growth from Jeff, and ended in a collective rally for Abed, secret virtuoso and bringer of espresso. “The rest of the guys watched. They say thanks,” Troy reported, scrolling through a sea of hearts and exclamation points from Annie and Britta. Each study group member signed off with an emoji of a steaming coffee mug. From Jeff a martini glass. “They all seem really happy.”

He slipped his phone back in his pocket and looked to Abed when there was no response. There was though: a smile graced Abed’s face that reached his eyes, a silent but sincere turn of his lips that Troy understood.

Mission accomplished.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @17StreetsAhead


End file.
